Fallen Angel (A Dangerous Hearts Romance) Read online

  Books By Deborah Camp:

  The Dangerous Hearts Series

  Fallen Angel

  Fire Lily

  Master of Moonspell

  Right Behind the Rain

  Riptide

  The Daring Hearts Series

  Black-eyed Susan

  Blazing Embers

  Cheyenne’s Shadow

  My Wild Rose

  Primrose

  The Love and Adventure Series

  After Dark

  For Love or Money

  In a Pirate’s Arms

  Just Another Pretty Face

  Vein of Gold

  The Love and Laughter Series

  A Newsworthy Affair

  Hook, Line, and Sinker

  Love Letters

  The Butler Did It

  Wrangler’s Lady

  The Love Everlasting Series

  A Dream to Share

  Midnight Eyes

  Strange Bedfellows

  They Said it Wouldn’t Last

  Winter Flame

  The Passionate Hearts Series

  Destiny’s Daughter

  Oklahoma Man

  Taming the Wild Man

  The Second Mr. Sullivan

  Weathering the Storm

  The Tender Hearts Series

  Devil’s Bargain

  Sweet Passion’s Song

  This Tender Truce

  To Have, To Hold

  Tomorrow’s Bride

  The Wild Hearts Series

  A Tough Man’s Woman

  Lady Legend

  Lonewolf’s Woman

  Too Tough ToTame

  Tough Talk, Tender Kisses

  FALLEN ANGEL

  DEBORAH CAMP

  Copyright © Deborah Camp, 1989

  All Rights Reserved

  First published by Avon Books.

  He thought she was his’n.

  He learned he was her’n.

  —cowboy saying

  Arizona is no place for amateurs.

  —Wyatt Earp

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 1

  “Oh, Beauregard! Feel my heart beating just for you!” Justine Drussard pressed the young man’s hand to her lush bosom, which was partially exposed by her low-cut bodice.

  Catcalls and moans rose up to drown out his response, but Justine knew it by heart anyway.

  “Yes, my love,” she shouted. “My heart belongs to you, and now that Papa is on the other side, the gold mine is ours. You, my brave one, have slain the dastardly Dudley Fishbine, and we have nothing but rainbows ahead of us.” She looked off, above the cowboy and derby hats in the front row of the Silver Nugget Theater, to the darkness beyond. “Nothing but rainbows, my love!”

  Justine looked up to watch the heavy, red velvet curtain fall and separate her from the rowdy Tombstone, Arizona, crowd. As soon as the gold tassels along the hem of the curtain touched the stage’s planked floor, Justine grabbed “Beauregard”’s wrist and peeled his hand off her pillowy bosom. When he resisted, she cut him with a flinty glare.

  “Take it off or I’ll break it off, Carter Hendricks,” she warned, drawing a nervous laugh from the actor.

  He dislodged her hand from his wrist and ran his forefinger across his sparse blond mustache. “Those drunken miners wouldn’t be so envious if they knew how stingy you are with your affections.” He faced front, staring at the curtain. “We’re ready for our curtain call,” he said, directing his comment to the little man standing in the wings, rope in hand.

  Justine stood beside Carter and fixed a smile on her face as the curtain went up again to thunderous applause and whistles. Executing a low curtsy, Justine tried to ignore the man in the front row who swayed toward her, thick lips pursed, eyes tightly shut, his friends bullying him on. Disgusting animals, she thought, then wished she were in a real theater where such behavior wouldn’t be tolerated. What was she thinking? In the legitimate theater these monkeys wouldn’t even be allowed in the front door!

  She stepped back, out of range, and comforted herself with the reminder that this was the last show in Tombstone. Come morning Monsieur Bonsoir’s Traveling Thespians would move on for a run in a Bisbee theater, then on to relative civilization in Tucson.

  That’s when I quit this mule team, she thought with conviction. She’d had it with traveling shows that were more circus than theater. She had to get back to her roots—Shakespeare and other classics. No more plays written to entertain drooling dogs. Sure, the money was good and the work was steady, but Justine had learned from experience that she’d rather be a supporting player in a reputable company than receive top billing in a poorly written and performed melodrama.

  The players took their bows, then the moth-eaten curtain fell again. Justine let the smile slip from her lips, and her shoulders slumped as she wove around the stage settings and other actors to the backstage area. The theater owner had provided three rooms for the troupe to save them hotel bills. Being the leading lady, Justine had taken over one of them. No more than a tiny closet, it was at least private, and she made her way to it gratefully.

  Privacy was a rare commodity in traveling shows. Even modest young women became accustomed to dressing in front of the other women and, occasionally, in the company of stagehands. Justine tugged at the front of her dress, hating the way it rode so low on her breasts. She was eager to be out of it and into her nightclothes, and to scrub the greasepaint off her face. Bone tired, she wanted nothing but a good night’s sleep so that she’d be ready to travel tomorrow after breakfast.

  A parchment calendar was tacked to the door of her makeshift dressing room. She paused, her hand on the doorknob, to examine the calendar page, realizing that she’d lost all track of time. When had she joined up with this company? she wondered, thinking back to the summer. June, wasn’t it? No. July. The week after the celebration of the Fourth. The summer had been one disappointment after another as she’d narrowly missed out on key acting roles, making her jump at the offer from Monsieur Bonsoir. And now it was fall already. Fall, she thought, staring at the top of the calendar, where big black letters spelled out OCTOBER 1881. She looked at the numbered boxes, ticking them off one by one until she found Tuesday the twenty-fifth, then she projected her thoughts forward to Thanksgiving, when she’d be in Tucson and finished with her obligation to this company. Not too far off, she thought with a resigned sigh. At least she’d have something to be thankful for on that holiday. She’d have her freedom and more than enough money for a ticket to St. Louis or Chicago. Some city that appreciated fine theater.

  Justine pushed open the door and stepped inside. Closing it, she reached for the lamp she’d set on the table nearby, but she froze in midmotion when she saw an unfamiliar hulk on her narrow bed. The hulk smiled, flashing pearly white teeth.

  “What are you doing in here, Elmer?” she asked her oily-haired boss.

  “The name is Monsieur Bonsoir,” he corrected through clenched teeth.

  “You’ll
always be Elmer Bragg to me,” she said, leaning back against the closed door and eyeing him with suspicion. “Once again, what are you doing in my room?”

  “Your room through the goodness of my heart,” he said, illustrating his point with a jab of one fat, stubby finger. “Now it’s your turn to show your appreciation to me.” His French accent sounded about as real as the four-carat “diamond” ring on his finger. “Do you not recall that I told you I would collect soon?” The bedsprings sang out in relief as he stood and took a step toward her. “The room is ours tonight, Jussie Drussard.”

  She shook her head, sending her dark curls bouncing around her shoulders. Stiff-arming him, Justine pushed Elmer away. “Not another step,” she said. “You might bed every other woman in this company, but not this one. I’d rather sleep with a desert lizard.”

  “That can be arranged,” he said, smiling, then batting her hand away. “Submit or I’ll throw you out on your pretty little ear.”

  “You’ve seen too many melodramas, Elmer,” she said, turning away from his pursed lips, then slipping sideways. “Now, out with you before I get really mad.”

  “Oh-ho!” His brown eyes glistened amid the rolls of skin surrounding them. “I like zee woman with fire!”

  “Zee woman is going to fire you with a good swift kick if you don’t back off right this minute!” She tried to sound mean and ornery, but she trembled inside as she sized up her opponent. Elmer weighed at least 280 pounds, she guessed, and she barely tipped the scales at 100. Her only advantage was her brain, since Elmer’s was soft from disuse.

  Elmer lunged, fingers wiggling and eyes glinting piggishly, and Justine struck. The flat of her hand stung his flabby cheek, leaving a bright imprint. He stared at her for a moment, his eyes watering and drool slipping from one corner of his thick lips.

  “Elmer-r-r-r.” Justine let his name ring like a warning bell. “Keep your distance.”

  With a massive grunt, he threw himself at her again, this time plastering her against the wall. He squeezed the air from her lungs, and his lips left wet marks on her neck and chin.

  “Stop it!” Justine pushed at his round shoulders. “Get off of me!” She stamped one foot, burying the heel of her shoe in the top of his, then brought her knee up hard, finding the juncture of his trunklike legs.

  Howling in pain, he doubled over, giving Justine enough room to slip away from him and head for the door. She paused to look over her shoulder, then cried out when his hand shot out and grabbed a handful of her ebony hair. He jerked her head back and spat in her face.

  Justine blinked and pressed her lips together to keep from retching.

  “Get out, you bitch! If you sleep in this room tonight, you sleep with me!” He gave her a vicious shove, sending her spinning and slamming against the door.

  Crying and wiping the vile man’s spit from her face, Justine wrenched open the door, grabbed her valise, and stumbled out into the corridor. Elmer slammed the door behind her.

  The door across the hall opened a crack, then all the way. Della Beecher propped one hand on her slim hip and tipped her head at a curious angle.

  “What’s all the racket about?” Della asked in a voice as hoarse as a bullfrog’s. “Did Monsieur Bonsoir finally get fed up with your uppity ways?”

  “The snake,” Justine said, running a hand down her face and wishing for a pan of hot water and a block of soap. She shivered and glanced toward what used to be her room. She’d been lucky to get out of there without any bruises, she told herself, drawing a deep, quivering breath. She fixed the other woman with a woe-is-me expression. “Della, let me stay in your room tonight,” she begged.

  “It’s not just mine. It belongs to all us girls, and it looks like you just became one of us. No more Miss Queen Bee for you. Come on in and join us worker bees.”

  Justine entered the room, smiling shyly at the other two women. Besides Della there were Annie Lee and Beatrice. Both were making beds for themselves on the floor.

  “Grab one of those quilts stacked on that trunk and make yourself a pallet,” Della instructed, pointing to the corner of the room where a mound of dirty quilts lay atop a rusty trunk. “After a night on the floor, you might decide to give Monsieur Bonsoir a little lovin’ so’s you can sleep on a real mattress again.”

  “Not on your life,” Justine said, grabbing a quilt and throwing it to the floor. She sat on it and opened her valise, shoving aside several articles to find the jar of French milled face cream she used to remove her theatrical makeup.

  “Honey, you was told when you was hired on that every gal in the company is the property, at one time or another, of the monsieur,” Della said, arranging some quilts for her own bed.

  “Why do you call him that ridiculous name?” Justine said, smearing the cream onto her face, then trying to find her hand mirror in the bottom of her valise. “His name is Elmer Bragg, and it fits him perfectly. That Monsieur Bonsoir nonsense is okay for the poor fools who pay to see our pitiful excuse for theater, but we all know better.”

  “Whatever you call him, he pays your salary,” Della said, sitting down and tugging the quilts into a better pallet. “If you don’t lie down for him, you’re just asking for trouble. Am I right, girls?” She looked at the other two women and they nodded, then Annie Lee sighed and closed her eyes while Beatrice turned her back to them. “They’re tuckered out,” Della whispered.

  “Aren’t we all,” Justine said, pulling her silver mirror from the valise to stare at her shiny cream-smeared face. She found a soft cloth, already discolored with cosmetics, and used it to dab away the face cream and makeup. Down her elegant nose, straight and short bridged, with nostrils that flared slightly, and across her rounded chin, she wiped with the cloth to reveal her own pale, flawless skin.

  She was a beauty, she knew, and she used her striking looks to get the attention of directors and theater owners. Once she had them looking, she could make them sit still long enough to reveal what she considered her best asset—her ability to become someone else, anyone else. Acting was her life and had been since she was a precocious ten-year-old, singing and dancing for pocket change on the streets of New Orleans and acting as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

  With her lustrous black hair, her striking gray eyes set in a small, oval-shaped face, and her petite, hourglass figure, Justine Drussard knew she was packaged well, but she didn’t rely on her looks, and she never let men take advantage of her because of them. At twenty, she was a virgin and intended to remain so until a desirable gentleman offered her a wedding ring and a ceremony to go with it.

  Until that day came, she was perfectly happy in her quest to become the most respected actress of her generation.

  “That’s a pretty mirror, dearie,” Della said, admiring the antique silver handle.

  “Thanks. It belonged to a woman I used to know in New Orleans. Jasmine Broadwater.” She smiled, seeing the woman’s wrinkled face in her mind’s eyes. “She gave me this ivory comb and brush, too.”

  “Oh, my! What fine material. Ivory, you say?”

  “Yes, real ivory from Africa. Jasmine Broadwater was a voodoo queen and had roots in that dark continent.” Justine took them from Della and packed them carefully in her carpet valise, where she kept her other treasure, her lucky rabbit’s foot. “Della, do you really think Elmer might cut my pay if I’m not nice to him?”

  “He’s done it before.”

  “But, surely you haven’t …” She let the rest trail off when she saw Della’s twinkling eyes and quick nod. “You have?”

  “Of course.” Della shrugged. “Why not?”

  Someone knocked at the door, making Justine gasp and turn wide eyes on Della, but the other woman waved aside Justine’s alarm.

  “It’s not the monsieur. Don’t worry.” Della pushed herself up and went to the door. She exchanged whispers with an Oriental boy, then took a steaming teapot from him. Turning to face Justine, she held up the pot and giggled. “Hot tea. Want some?”


  “Yes, I’d love some. It’ll settle my nerves.” Justine held out her hands to Della. They were trembling. “That fight with Elmer upset me more than I thought.”

  Della gave a slow wink. “This’ll do the trick, dearie. I’ll get the cups. There are a few in this old cabinet over here. I spotted them last night.” She shuffled to the back of the room, out of sight. When she came back, she held a tray with the teapot on it and two cracked china cups and saucers. She’d already poured the tea, and she handed one of the cups to Justine. “Drink up, dearie. Drink up!”

  “Thanks, but first I’m getting out of this dress.” Justine set the cup and saucer to one side while she wiggled out of the tight blue dress. She flung it across a trunk, then removed her petticoats, corset, shoes, and stockings. Clad only in her chemise, she slipped under the quilt and picked up her tea. “Ahh, that feels ever so much better. That dress is torture, I tell you. It squeezes my breasts until I think they’re going to pop right over the top of the neckline. And the waist pinches so, even when I wear a corset.” She sipped the tea. It had a peppermint taste and sent warmth spiraling through her. Propping herself on her elbows, she relaxed with a long sigh. “I’ll sure be glad to see the last of this town, won’t you?”

  “Tombstone is a rough-and-tumble place,” Della observed. “There are a lot of bad men here, I’ll wager.”

  “Saloons and brothels,” Justine said. “That’s what makes up this town. Oh, and mines. I’ve never seen so many working mines.”

  “Tombstone wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for them mines.” Della took a long, gulping drink of her own tea. “But at least there’s some culture.”

  “Where? I haven’t seen it.”

  “Why, there’s theaters all over this place. ’Bout near every saloon has a stage in it, too. And didn’t you see that brand new place—Shief something Hall?”

  “Yes, I saw it.” Justine shrugged off the signs of civilization. “But I haven’t seen many decent people around. Just a bunch of drunks.”

  “I’ve played worse places.”

  “I haven’t, and I don’t want to. I took this job because I was down to my last few dollars, but come Thanksgiving I’m heading for the big city. I must return to my original calling.”